Chapter Three
With Hamlet warned and prepared to see his father the following night, I was free to hit the hay. Metaphorically speaking, of course. I would never actually hit hay. Waste of effort and horse feed.
I dragged myself down the hall to my room. The tapestries wavered as if in an invisible wind. Or maybe it was just my eyes. I yawned.
“Farewell, Laertes,” a sweet voice—disgustingly sweet, like marshmallows rolled in sugar—said.
I paused. A door stood cracked open in the wall, and from within emanated the voice and two others. I crept nearer, standing beside the door but out of sight of any who might peek out.
“One last thing, Ophelia.” I recognized the young male voice. Laertes had once been a childhood friend, funny and mischievous and nearly as witty as Hamlet. Now he was just an eager, violent snob. “Do be careful with Hamlet. He does not truly love you, you know.”
“Oh.” That was Ophelia, Hamlet’s beau and as annoyingly sweet as you can get. Talking to her felt like being forcefed honey mixed with sugar and overripe berries. On cake. Lathered with frosting. The store-bought kind, not the good homemade stuff. “Are you entirely sure? I believed…”
“No.” Ah, that would be their father, Polonius. An old meddler and rather over-possessive of his children. “He is a conniving brute.”
“But he is so sweet and passionate.” Delicate footsteps tapped their way across the floor. “He writes me poems and gives me flowers.”
“Tricks,” scoffed Polonius.
I huffed. As if. Hamlet constantly fawned over Ophelia. He talked of nearly nothing else, ever since they became beaus. Really, it was quite exasperating to be around.
“Laertes, I wish you well on your journey.” Polonius’s slippers padded towards the sound of Laertes’s pacing boots.
“Thank you, Father.” A clap of hands, then the swish of fabric as they shook hands. “I shall bring you both souvenirs from Paris.”
A bit more shuffling around ensued. Then boots clomped towards the door. I scurried down the hall before Laertes could spot me.
“Bother,” I mumbled. “I hope Ophelia does not take her family’s advice.”
“What was that?” A maid fell in step beside me, duster in hand.
I jumped. “You startled me.”
She chuckled. Her eyes sparkled like twin lakes in the sunlight when she laughed.
“Why is a dazzling damsel such as yourself up so late, Miss Carlotta?” I tugged playfully on the end of her molasses-and-honey-colored braid.
She shrugged. “Late shift. And why is Lord Lazypants about at this time of night?”
I stumbled. Hamlet’s intense gaze and trembling voice pierced my mind. I couldn’t speak of the ghost, not even with Carlotta. “Oh, you know. Hamlet’s usual escapades.”
“He’s mad.” Carlotta shook her head. Her long braid swung with the motion. “Terrifyingly intelligent, but mad as a…a…”
“A madman?” I grinned and dodged Carlotta’s smack. If only it could be like this every day.
“Nearly as mad as you.” The maid shook her head.
I touched the back of Carlotta’s calloused hand. She flinched and drew away, her eyes darting around.
“It’s alright,” I assured her. “We’re alone.”
She bit her lip. “I know. But you must be more careful.”
“Me?” I chuckled. With a quick glance around to assure myself that no one was watching, I leaned over and pecked Carlotta on the cheek.
“Horatio!” She stopped in her tracks and stared at me. With a shocked smile blooming across her face, she reached up and brushed the place where I had kissed her.
“Goodnight.” I winked and ducked into my room, from which my bed beckoned like a long-lost brother.
I had this brilliant plan to convince Ophelia to remain with Hamlet, solve the whole ghost problem, and subvert the law so I could court a maid, but I forgot it all when my new best friend, the bed, called my name.
Hey, I can’t save Denmark without my beauty sleep, now can I?
Psst! What did you think of Chapter Three? Let me know in the comments!
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